One Afternoon
by anamq
Summary: House and Cuddy meet after the show finale.
1. Chapter 1

_I would like to thank Babaloo for her expertise in proofreading. And for her patience. She is also a great writer. Check out her stories in FF._

_This story will have 4 chapters. All of them are already written._

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><p>I<p>

Blue sky. White clouds. Black silhouettes flying, far away. An aeroplane passing, just a thin fading line on the big space. Sounds of people running. Broken conversations. Laughter. Bright sun. Smell of grass. Heat on the skin.

House was stretched out on a picnic table, arms folded under his head, cane next to his right leg. He felt serene, lazy even, lying there, enjoying the first days of summer.

He closed his eyes.

He heard footsteps approaching.

A shadow blocked the sun.

He kept his eyes shut.

"House."

A familiar voice near him. Too familiar. He shuddered inwardly.

"House, I know you are listening. Open your eyes. I want to talk to you."

"Go away. There is nothing to talk about. The dead don't talk to the living. Unless during a _séance._ And I don't think they perform such a ceremony in a public park, in broad daylight."

"You are not dead and I'm not leaving without talking to you. I'm going to sit down on this bench and I'm not going to move an inch until you give me your full attention."

_Damn the woman_.

"I thought we had said everything there was to say when I gave you back your brush."

Silence.

She didn't move. House could hear her breathing, could smell her perfume. So sweet. An insect buzzed next to his ear and flew away. His eyes remained closed. Maybe she would get tired and leave. Maybe she was not really there. Maybe she was a hallucination.

Cuddy remained seated.

"Aren't you curious?" She said at last. "Aren't you curious to know why I am here?"

House didn't want to open his eyes. He didn't want to. He wished he could also close his ears. It was better if he didn't answer at all. If he didn't say anything there would be no conversation. No reason for her to stay. That's it. Problem solved.

But he was curious.

With a grunting noise, House opened his eyes, lifted his head and looked at Cuddy's face for the first time in more than two years. He felt like crying. Instead he said:

"Why are you here, then?"

"I know about Wilson."

_Ah_. House lay down his head again and gazed at the sky, waiting for her to continue. But she didn't.

At last, against his will, House asked:

"How did you find me?"

"When I heard about your death…" She paused. "When I heard about your death, I didn't believe at first. To be honest, it took me some time to believe, despite the fire and the witnesses. Despite the body. One day I went to visit your mother."

"Why?" House turned to Cuddy.

"I don't know. It was a whim. I needed to talk to someone who had known you, and your mother was the only person…"

"With no connection to the hospital."

Cuddy smiled sadly. "Exactly."

House's look became intense, the blue of his eyes more bright.

Cuddy continued. "I caught a plane and went. I wanted to give her my condolences. I wanted to say to her… I didn't know what I wanted to say. I think I wanted to be sure you were dead."

"For you to breathe a sigh of relief."

"No. Not that." Her voice gained a vehement tone. "Never that." She said softly.

Cuddy's eyes followed a couple pushing a baby stroller. "Your mother received me very well. I always liked her. We had tea. She spoke about you, about your childhood…"

"Oh, God!" House turned his eyes to the sky.

"… showed me photographs…"

"Oh, the horror!"

Cuddy laughed. The sound travelled to House's soul and remained there. He had missed that laugh.

"We were together for a long time. At the end of the day, when I was preparing to leave I noticed a postcard on a table. It was a postcard from Venice. It was signed: 'Nemo'. I knew then you were alive."

"I shouldn't have written to her. It was stupid of me."

"It wasn't. Well, maybe it was a little but if you hadn't written I would not be here."

"Like I said, stupid. I wouldn't be surprised if you had called the police. Maybe they are here now, scattering around the park, hidden behind the trees."

"Do you think so?"

House looked at Cuddy. At the sadness in her eyes. A sadness he had put there. He wanted to kiss her.

"No," he said at last.

Cuddy went on. "I was in shock, of course. I didn't tell anyone. I asked myself if other people knew you were alive, if you had told the truth to someone else. I found out Wilson had left the hospital and nobody knew where he was. I added two plus two. I imagined both of you in Europe. The adventures you were having. The troubles you were getting into…" Cuddy smiled mischievously. House too, although he wished he didn't.

"I was happy. You may not believe it but I was happy. Afterwards I heard about Wilson's death. I had to see you."

House and Cuddy looked into each other's eyes for a long time. Trying to find what each other was feeling. Weighting the moment.

Cuddy broke the silence. "Lucas…"

"Oh, crap, Cuddy!" House exploded. "Don't tell me you told him. I don't know why I'm not in prison already." Angrily he rose to his feet and was about to leave when Cuddy held his arm. "Wait," she said. House looked at her hand and remembered the last time Cuddy had touched him in a similar way. A sour taste came to his mouth. _Shit_, he thought. _And to say the day started so well_.

"You didn't let me finish. I was going to say: _Lucas_… taught me one thing or two in the time we were together." House made a mocking sound but Cuddy ignored him. "I found out you had returned to Princeton and that you usually come to this park. You didn't bother to cover your tracks. Aren't you afraid of the police?"

House shrugged.

"I imagine they have more things to worry about chasing old cripples."

Cuddy noticed the bitterness in his voice.

House removed a bottle from his pants pocket, opened it, and took two pills. He showed them to Cuddy. They were Vicodin. "My leg is _not_ hurting," he said emphatically. Then he stared at her waiting for a reaction. Cuddy said nothing. He swallowed the pills. "Come, let's go to the lake. I need to walk."

They walked in silence. Cuddy was careful not to outpace him, to follow his rhythm. She had observed he was limping more than usual.

It seemed strange to be there, walking with him side by side. Sensing his presence. When she had touched him earlier, she had felt his skin under her fingers, his body heat, his well-formed muscles, his protruding veins. The power of his presence. During the last few years she had thought more of him as a ghost, as someone she had once imagined. It was good having him near her, alive. It was good to hear his voice. To see those blue eyes again.

Cuddy and House approached the lake. Ducks, geese and a pair of white swans were on the water. Tree leaves glimmered under the sunlight, wavering in many shades of green. Some kids were throwing pieces of bread into the lake. The ducks approached quickly, hurriedly, leaving an undulating trail in their wake.


	2. Chapter 2

II

"How are you?"

Cuddy's voice broke House's reverie. They had been walking around the lake and were now seated on a bench facing a small island with a big tree in the middle. The tree seemed to weep, its long bending branches touching the water. On that spot there were no ducks, no children, only dragonflies coming and going, their blue slim bodies shining, like armours, on the sunlight. Rulers of the air. House was transfixed by their movements, by the swiftness, elegance and precision of their flight.

"It's going," he finally answered, not in a mood to talk.

"It must have been very difficult after Wilson's…"

"Yes, it was. It was very difficult," said House abruptly, interrupting her. He was annoyed and out of patience. "Why don't you get straight to the point? You used to be more direct."

"Why did you fake your own death?", asked Cuddy in one breath.

House looked at her and then at the lake.

"I decided the time had come for me to reinvent myself. I was sick of being the man I was. The same problems, the same obsessions. The same loneliness. I was sick of being the genius doctor, able to save everyone except himself. I was sick of being the man who ran a car into his girlfriend's house. I had become small. I yearned to be more than what I was. When Wilson got sick… it was a blow, a punch in the stomach. It seemed everything I ever cared about was being taken from me little by little. First the leg, then Stacy, my sanity, you… Wilson was the last thing I had… Wilson and my freedom, and I was about to lose both. In that warehouse, surrounded by flames, an idea came to me. I thought that if I died nobody would miss me. There were the patients, of course… but there would always be other doctors… there would always be someone to save them, if they were lucky, and even if there wasn't… I was going to jail anyway, I wouldn't be able to practice medicine for a while. It seemed the perfect opportunity to change everything. Dead, I could be with Wilson until the end… and afterwards… afterwards I could live a new life. It would be like a resurrection. Appropriate, don't you think?"

House turned to Cuddy and a flash of blue crossed his eyes.

"It's not true, you know," said Cuddy quietly. "What you said about the world not missing you. It's not true. _I_ missed you."

"Of course you did."

"Look at me." Cuddy held House's face with both her hands. "I _missed _you," she said. Her voice had the power of truth.

House didn't move.

Cuddy's fingers start probing, slowly, delicately, the lines on his face. Noting its depressions and creases. His personal landscape. House closed his eyes. He remained very still, feeling her fingers glide across his skin, his forehead, his eyelids. They traced tenderly the deep line on his right cheek. A long line that started near the eye and ended at the jaw. A line that made him look sadder, wearier, older.

The fingers reached the mouth. They touched the soft lower lip. He could feel their soft pressure, could almost taste them. He wanted to taste them. They spread through the stubble, caressing it. Cuddy felt prickling sensations shooting from her fingertips. It was a pleasant feeling. The white hairs gleamed. Tiny pieces of silver under the sun. So beautiful, she thought. He was so beautiful.

At last, Cuddy lowered her arms, and House opened his eyes. It was difficult to behold the desire she saw in them. Such an intense, deep desire, made of water and salt, silence and loss. An opening to green and blue immensities lit only by a faint trembling light. Beyond space and time, beyond memory and perception, beyond self. A desire that pulled in, relentless and mesmerizing like a siren song. One could drown in that desire.

"I'm sorry", said Cuddy, breathlessly. "I'm sorry for what I've done."

"We already talked about it. It was not your fault. You just didn't love me enough," he said simply.

His words hurt her.

"Is that what you think?"

"Yes." He shrugged slightly. "Better luck next time."

"I took a lot of things from you when we broke up."

"You took everything. But you gave me something back. A little pain… in here," House pointed to his heart. "You are that pain."

A cloud covered the sun immersing House's face in shadow. His features became blurred, smudged, as if someone had tried to wash them away with grey ink. Cuddy didn't know what to say so she didn't say anything. Sorrow, that's what she felt.

House stood up, straightened his back and drew a deep breath.

"I'm hungry. Do you wanna go eat?"

They went.

Flocks of birds flew above them. The afternoon was coming to an end.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3 of 4_

_Thank you all for the comments. Specially the guests (I can't thank them personally)._

_BabalooBlue made the revision. Go check her stories :)_

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><p>III<p>

House opened the door to his apartment and entered.

"Make yourself comfortable. I'm going to prepare something for us to eat. Are you still a veggie?"

Cuddy said yes while she closed the door and stepped inside the living room.

"An omelette, then." House's voice came from the kitchen.

Cuddy looked around her. The living room was furnished almost like House's living room at 221 B but with fewer things. The new apartment was smaller. The piano was in a corner, near the window. She didn't see the guitars. A big sword was displayed, in a prominent position, on one of the walls. The same sword House once used to open a champagne bottle. He couldn't do it and the bottle had smashed between his fingers, splashing champagne all over the place. She could still hear themselves laughing. The sound echoed in her memory. Ghost of a former time.

There were medical journals scattered around the couch and sheet music on the floor and on top of the piano. Cuddy picked one up, out of curiosity. On the top of the page a word was written – "To" – but the space next to it was empty. The sheet was filled with annotations. She smiled inwardly noting House's handwriting. Tall, lean and shooting in different directions, like the man himself.

The evening light was coming through the window, filtered by curtains of a thin white fabric. There were no photographs anywhere. It was a strange, surreal atmosphere. Like visiting the past but at the same time not.

_Why did he hang that sword?_, thought Cuddy. _I shouldn't have come_.

"The food is on the table." She heard House shout.

xxx

They ate in silence in the beginning, both of them feeling uncomfortable.

"And how is the little fan of pirate cartoons? Is she in college? Don't tell me she's married already," asked House more to say something than because of any real curiosity. Talking about kids was a safe subject. All mothers like to talk about their children.

"Rachel is five, House. She is very well. Loves to play. Always doing something, never staying still for a second. Tall, you wouldn't believe it. She stayed with my mother."

"Ah, the old Jewish walrus. Such fun we had together."

At that moment House's cell phone rang. He looked at it.

"Hold on to what you're thinking and were _not _going to say," he remarked while he walked out of the kitchen to pick up the call.

Cuddy listened to him talking in the living room but she couldn't discern what he was saying. After a couple of minutes, House came back.

As soon as he sat down, he asked abruptly:

"Are you seeing someone?"

Cuddy had been waiting for that question since the beginning of the meal, but its suddenness still took her by surprise. House's timing was different from everyone else's.

"Yes."

"Do you love him?"

Cuddy dropped her eyes to the omelette leftovers on her plate. "It's so difficult to find love, you know," she said, softly.

"Poor guy."

"Fuck you." He had managed to make her angry.

"Sorry. My bad. I shouldn't have said anything. If you want to leave I understand completely."

Cuddy thought about it. She was more than ready to go, but she didn't because she knew that was what he wanted, what he was expecting. Instead, she asked:

"No dessert for your guest of honour?"

House's mouth stretched into a knowing smile.

"_Mais oui, madame_." He rose and limped towards the fridge. "But I must warn you, I didn't go shopping so don't count on anything too sophisticated." He opened the door and looked inside. "You can choose between jelly and canned peaches," he said and turned his head to Cuddy.

Cuddy picked the first one and House brought two plastic cups with jelly to the table. Through the half-opened door Cuddy had seen that the fridge was almost empty.

She wanted to help him clean up but House didn't let her. It was he who removed the dishes and fetched the spoons. The bottle of wine they had been drinking, however, remained in the same place.

Again, silence fell in the kitchen, only interspersed by the muffled _tic-tac_ of an old alarm clock. House watched Cuddy eat. He observed the elegant way she handled the spoon, how her lips parted and curved slightly, the tiny wrinkles around her eyes, the way her hair framed her face and flowed in waves over and down her shoulders. He had always admired her hair. He remembered the pleasure he felt whenever he dived in that thick mass, its slim slippery threads covering his fingers like dark seaweeds, its perfume filling him inside. That pleasure was now reserved for another. His leg was hurting again.

After dessert, coffee. A nice smell spread throughout the air. Cuddy observed House while he put the cups on the table, took the coffee pot from the stove, picked up the sugar. He moved effortlessly, almost automatically, as if he was performing a ritual. Cuddy liked to see him move, to see his muscles distend and contract, to discern the shape of his back and chest underneath the t-shirt's fabric, to look at his long hands touching things. Cuddy imagined him making those same gestures every day. Alone… or maybe not. She tried not to think about that last possibility.

The coffee tasted good.

"And did you do it? Reinvent yourself, I mean," Cuddy asked, at last.

House became serious. "I'm still a cripple. I'm still in pain. I'm still on Vicodin. I'm still alone. But I recovered my music. I play now every day. I compose songs for me and for others. I give consults, unofficially. I see some patients. Not the kind of patients who feel comfortable going to a hospital."

Cuddy gave him a look.

"Hey, I already broke the law... A life is a life. Who they are, what they do, that never made any difference to me." He paused momentarily. "I rediscovered the pleasure of travelling. I'm rarely at home nowadays. If I changed? The man I once was still lives inside me, somewhere. You cannot truly change who you are, deep down. I'm not happy, if that is what you really want to know. I tried to be in the past and that almost destroyed me. I will not make the same mistake again. I feel free. At least as free as a man like me can be." He glanced at his leg. "I live day by day. I try to be more patient with life's little inconveniences, its small hiccups. Every day something unexpected happens. You, today, for instance. I stopped searching for meaning and maybe because of that I sometimes find it in what is around me. Ironic, isn't it? Life is chaos, we are chaos. I learned to live with the chaos that I am."

And House never looked more beautiful to Cuddy as in that moment.


	4. Chapter 4

_This is the end, folks. _

_Thank you all for reading and commenting._

_Thank you to all the guests. Thank you Robin for your lengthy and interesting comments. I can't answer them personally, unfortunately, since you are not registered. I think you can find answers for your questions in the text itself. About "why Princeton?" House told me he had connections there. What kind of connections, he didn't say._

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><p>IV<p>

"Play for me," asked Cuddy.

They were in the living room. House was seated in front of the piano. Cuddy at his side. The sun was finally setting. Everything was bathed in an dim orange light.

House started playing. Cuddy watched his nimble fingers moving skilfully along the keyboard. The veins of his hands dancing to the tune. Such beautiful hands. The music started softly, slowly, timidly, almost like it was afraid to be born. Later it gained momentum and intentionality and entered into a syncopated rhythm. Cuddy recognized Jewish influences and was surprised. The music continued with variations of the same rhythm for some time until it returned to a more melodic sound, notes succeeding each other like waves in the sea. It ended in a long and languid tone, so sublime that it filled Cuddy's heart with beauty.

House stopped playing.

"This was the music I composed for Rachel's _Simchat_ _Bat_."

"You never told me. Why didn't you tell me you had composed something so beautiful for my daughter? Even during the time we were together?"

"I don't know. I played it while I imagined the ceremony taking place. I thought that I didn't need to play it again. The gesture was made. The meaning given. It was a moment and that moment passed. It wasn't necessary to be repeated."

"Except now."

"Except now. I wanted to show you that something good still exists inside me."

Cuddy wanted to hug him forever.

"You know I waited for you all that night? Every time someone knocked on the door, I wished it were you. But you never came."

"You never invited me properly."

"One of my mistakes," said Cuddy with sadness. "Thank you for the music. From the bottom of my heart. I would like for you to come and see Rachel. She liked to play with you. She was your friend."

House nodded, quickly, almost imperceptibly. "Maybe some day."

They were very close now, head touching head. Seated on the same bench, in front of the piano. They were speaking softly, in murmurs. Their own private world. Cuddy covered House's hands with her own, as if to shelter them. Their fingers intertwined. They stayed like this for a long time. The sun had set and the room was in darkness, only lit by the moon and some stars. Far away, on a nearby roof, a cat meowed. It was as if a baby was crying.

"I miss him," said House, but his voice didn't betray any emotion besides the simple stating of a fact. Cuddy, however, sensed the desolation hidden behind those words.

Slowly, House unlocked his hands from hers and kissed Cuddy tenderly on the forehead. "It's getting late. You better go now." He stood up and started turning on the lights. Cuddy remained where she was.

"Why did you hang that sword on the wall? Does it have any meaning?"

"It's my father's sword. For a long time it stayed in a closet. I decided to give it some air. It's a beautiful piece. It has the meaning you want to give to it."

Cuddy didn't want to leave, but she knew she couldn't stay. House stood next to a lamp. Waiting.

"I liked seeing you. It was good. I wish…" Cuddy hesitated, "I wish for us to be friends." She looked at him.

House's face hardened. "I don't need your commiseration, Cuddy. Nor do I want it. You changed your life because of me. You left the hospital, the work you loved. You changed cities. I can't erase what I've done and I don't want to go back."

"I didn't come to see you out of pity. I already told I miss you. I missed you all these years. Yes, the past can't be changed. And yes, I felt anger towards you for a long time. But then the anger passed and emptiness took its place. I don't want us to return to what we were but I don't want to lose you either. I don't want for you to remain a bad memory in my life."

"It seems I'm hearing echoes of a similar conversation, a conversation that started with me telling you that this was a mistake, telling you I wasn't going to change. And you telling me that you didn't want me to change, but after all you did want it, didn't you? It's the same tune, only with different notes. I'm another person but, deep down, I remain the same. I don't know if the person I am now will be good enough for you. You saw me today, for the first time in years. Because you had a pleasant afternoon you think everything will be different. You didn't see my bad moments. I still have those. You didn't see my "son of a bitch" moments. Legally, I don't exist. I live with false documents. I never stay in any place for long. I have shady friends. It's a precarious life, but it's the life I chose. I'm fifty-five years old, what you see is what I have to give. Everything, so far, is working well but that can change any minute. Gregory House died in that warehouse, it's not in my plans to bring him back. You liked seeing me. I liked seeing you too. I liked the fact that you look at me like I am a human being, not some kind of monster. For that, I am grateful. But do you know how much it pains me having you here, wishing for you to stay and being forced to say 'go'?"

Cuddy understood the truth of House's words. She stood up and walked towards the front door. House followed her. She opened the door and turned to him.

"Then, this is the moment of the real goodbye."

House cursed himself for what he was going to do but he couldn't let, yet again, another woman walked out of his life that way. He moved closer to Cuddy, held her hand and kissed her palm with deep affection.

"I love you. I can't be your friend. But if you want to come to the park, once in a while, to talk, I wouldn't mind."

Cuddy smiled and nodded.

"It's a deal", she said.

House looked at her as if he was seeing her for the last time. And maybe he was, who could know for sure. Who would have guessed Cuddy would come to him that afternoon? And how many afternoons were in his future? House hoped a lot more and, maybe, in one of them…

THE END


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